A friend of mine shared a blog on her Facebook page the other day. The blogger is on WordPress at cannebodyhearme.wordpress.com, and she flat-out blew me away. The truth is, she is me, or might as well be. Except that she’s much younger, and much, much thinner. But her weight loss was achieved via Weight Watchers, so she’s been me, too. She’s been heavier, actually. Currently, though, she’s smaller than I’ve been in my adult life, ever. Or am likely to be, in truth. She must be 20-something; I just turned 46. I expect to lose more weight, eventually. I also expect to reach my goal weight, a number I have yet to choose. But will I stay at this mythical goal weight, once I get there? That also has yet to be determined. At the moment, it doesn’t matter. The future is not for me to angst over. I could, and have, but I also recognize that it’s a waste of my energy. One day at a time is more than just a 12-step program cliche, it’s the truth. It’s all we ever have. When I put that idea into practice, it makes all the difference.

There was so much this woman said I could relate to… too much. I ended up reading several posts, skipping around randomly. She spoke of hating herself in pictures, of only seeing the flaws. That has little to do with weight; nearly every woman I know – regardless of size – seems plagued by that same issue. She wrote more specifically of avoiding smiling in pictures because she felt it made her face appear larger. Ouch. Guilty. So very guilty. Moreover, I almost never smile with my teeth showing in photos, because I think it makes the problem worse. When I do try I think I look awkward, nearly manic. Years and years of trying to smile “just enough” have taken their toll.

She wrote one blog about being stuck in a mode where she wanted that piece of cake worse than she wanted to be thin, at least for the time being. She also talked about avoiding meetings because she knew she’d gained, and about the shame she felt. I’ve been there, lately. I haven’t been tracking and I haven’t been to a Weight Watchers meeting in a month. Initially I had gained a little, and wanted to “fix it” before weighing in. Uh huh. Want to guess how well that’s working? The further I get from my last meeting, the more I gain, and the harder it is to face that scale. She at least seemed to be getting on the scale at home, though. I’ve been avoiding even that, worried that it will tell me I’ve failed, that I’m huge, ugly, a mess. Ah, numbers. The bane of my existence. I was never very good at math, but the power those numbers have over me is horrifying. I know I’ve gained, and I feel terrible about it, but without the number, it’s a nebulous, manageable kind of terrible. I am guessing I’ve gained around five pounds, because my clothes still fit, they’re just less comfortable. But if I get on that scale and find out I’ve gained seven pounds instead of the five I think I’ve gained? Let the torrent of self-loathing begin. All that over a theoretical difference of two pounds? Yes. Yes, indeed.

It’s about the number, yet it’s not. The entire thing is a construct, really. I feel pretty and good about myself at a given size, but hideous at the next size up. It’s all bullshit. It’s me beating myself up and grabbing an arbitrary number to use as my weapon. It’s not about the weight.

When I was in Overeaters Anonymous, I learned that anorexics were no different than I. Oh, they looked different, to be sure, but it was an illusion. Different sides of the same coin. The low self-esteem and self-hate, the battle for control of our weight… all the same. They might have been thinner but they weren’t winning the battle, either. The differences were all a matter of perception. Our own, society’s…. In the end it didn’t matter. The goal was never a number, but a different way of looking at ourselves, and at food. The struggle to achieve those things is so much fucking harder than reaching a fixed point on a scale.

I looked at this girl’s “after” picture, and I was jealous. She’s young, she’s thin and she’s very, very pretty. It’s all a lie, though, an illusion. We are the same, she and I. We both seek a healthy relationship with ourselves and with food, and both of us continue to struggle. She hasn’t “won” because she’s thin now. Her post revealed that “after” wasn’t an easy place to be. Not surprising, in the end. There is no “after,” there is only today. It’s all we have, all we can have. What we choose to do with today, though….

As for me, I need to face my fears and get my butt back to my Weight Watchers meeting. I can’t do it alone. Any lie I tell myself that keeps me from weighing in is ultimately just my self-destructive tendency rearing its ugly head. I need to go. To face the number, the scale and myself. Those people in my meeting, my leader included, will neither hate me nor shame me for gaining weight. No. I do that to myself. Self-love can’t be conditional, hinged solely on what the scale is telling me. Going to that meeting is an act of love. Staying in my townhouse eating cookies, not so much. The struggle is real, and it’s a life-long one. Today was better than yesterday. I’ll let you know how tomorrow goes.

At the end of last year, I had made some progress toward minimizing my sugar intake, even over the holidays. I don’t know that I lost any weight, but I certainly felt better. Lately, I’ve been using sugar again to pacify my stress. Dessert has become a nightly routine instead of an occasional treat, and snacks that are supposedly “for the kids” get nibbled on in passing.

Yesterday I saw a picture of myself taken last summer and realized just how much weight I’ve gained since. Not good. I feel terrible about it – terrible about myself. I’m so tired of feeling terrible about myself. I’ve been struggling with my weight and my self-image nearly my entire life. It seems like I have never managed to have all of the pieces in place at the same time. While I’ve had times when I’ve successfully gotten down to a reasonable weight, I still hadn’t reached a place where I was happy with my face… I still felt inadequate. Now, at nearly 45, I am mostly happy with my face. I can look in the mirror from the shoulders up and see more pluses than minuses, which is a gift. A valuable one. The timing is once again off, though, because while I am happy with my face, I am so uncomfortable with my body that I cringe at the sight of myself. I am not even entirely comfortable alone, which sucks. I want to be able to like all of me – soul, body and face – at the same time. Seems like it shouldn’t be too much to ask.

At almost 45, I feel like I’m running out of time. In the past, when I was overweight I always told myself I had plenty of time to get my act together. I don’t feel that way now. The truth is, as much as I want to get healthy and feel better (the noble reasons for losing weight), I also want to look great. Not just to myself, or to my husband (who thankfully thinks I’m beautiful no matter what), but to the world in general. This sounds embarrassingly vain, but it’s the truth. I’m not one of those girls who can look back and remember how hot I was in high school. I wasn’t hot. I was overweight and a late bloomer… those were not my best years. Even in college, I was the girl who was constantly being asked about my beautiful friends. Men would approach me at clubs for the sole purpose of asking me about my friends. So much fun. I did have gorgeous friends, but the question still got old. Everyone wants to be the beautiful one sometimes.

We’ve all heard the theory is that “40 is the new 30,” but I’m almost 45, which seems a whole lot closer to 50. How many women over 50 are still described as hot? (Women who are not movie stars with access to an army of dermatologists, plastic surgeons, etc.) “Attractive for her age” is a phrase I hear a lot (not leveled at myself specifically, but at women over 50 in general). That’s not what I want, a compliment with qualifiers attached. Obviously, there are women over 50 who manage to defy time and this generalization. If you are one of them, please don’t be offended. And congratulations! The truth is, I would like to be hot, even if it’s just for a brief window of time. I know this sounds shallow, but I’ve never had that experience. I’ve never been able to view myself that way, and as far as I know have never been viewed that way. I would like a chance to know what that feels like before I’m too old for it to be possible. Yes, admitting that I feel this way is embarrassing. I tell myself it’s not important and that it shouldn’t matter. But it does matter, and telling myself how I should or shouldn’t feel doesn’t change that. Vanity feels like a dirty little secret, something I shouldn’t be acknowledging publicly. Looking good is valued – hyper-valued, even – but as women we’re not supposed to admit how much it matters to us, or we’re shallow.

With everything that has gone catastrophically wrong in my financial world in the last five years, it feels even almost shameful to admit that in the midst of all this stress I can still manage to obsess about something as seemingly insignificant as how I look. And yet, I obviously can. Maybe it’s because this seems like something that should be within my control. I can’t control whether potential employers take my resume seriously, but I am the only one who decides what I eat, how much I eat and whether or not I get off my butt and exercise. It’s all on me… there is no one else to blame. So if I don’t like what I see when I look in the mirror, that’s on me as well. My reflection is the direct result of the choices I make, every day.

So here I am, at almost 45, still trying to get my act together. I need to get my diet under control, in particular the amount of sugar I’m eating. I need to figure out an exercise routine I can stick with. I also need to learn to be self-motivated. I’ve typically been most successful with weight loss when there is an external motivation driving me (a big vacation or event… that kind of thing). I need to learn to find the motivation from within, because ultimately that’s the only thing that will keep working… to 50, and beyond.

As I was getting ready for bed tonight, I was staring at my face in the mirror. This is nothing new for me, this obsessing over my reflection. It’s especially easy during my nighttime routine, which currently involves a vitamin c cream (to lighten up any areas that are darker due to sun damage or age; I have a few near the left side of my jaw that have been bothering me lately) and a firming cream. Sometimes I mix things up and use retinol (to fight off any encroaching wrinkles) and various other serums. Lots of magic in little bottles, or at least that’s always the hope. The nature of these products causes me to focus on the areas they are meant to improve. While I’m staring (often in a magnifying mirror, which I cannot in good conscience recommend), I often notice other flaws… hairs in places I prefer they not be, areas that look less firm than I wish they were. I am glad products and tools to improve all these perceived problems exist, but I do wonder if it’s possible that they cause women to focus on the negative a bit too much. They’re certainly never advertised as existing to “improve your already stunningly gorgeous face.”

Ad admission: objectively, there isn’t much wrong with my skin. Yes, I am 44 years old, so my skin doesn’t look like that of a 20-year-old, sadly. But it’s relatively firm and mostly wrinkle-free. There are some fine lines on my forehead that bother me a bit, hence the retinol. But seriously, I have little to complain about. Good genes. As much as I tried to screw up my pale Irish complexion with repeated episodes of sun-drenched torture, I didn’t quite succeed. I can pretty much guarantee that no one else notices the things I do, especially given that no one else on earth is looking at my face with the aid of a magnifying mirror. My skin is still fair, and the fat I wish would vacate other areas of my body does me favors in my face. While I have never adored its round shape, I admit it makes me look younger than I would otherwise.

My skin has always been my friend, even if I was too naive to realize it. I never struggled with teenage acne (and rarely even had a pimple), and I have always looked significantly younger than my age. It makes me sad now to remember myself at 15, staring in similar mirrors with so little joy. I had friends who would have killed for my skin back then, and probably still do. But then as now I tended to only notice the flaws. Are we all like that? Do most teenagers stare in the mirror and revel in their current glory? I tend to doubt it. When someone remarks with surprise over my age now, I smile and say thanks, but inside I am thinking that I used to look so much younger than my true age… sometimes up to eight years younger. Now if I’m lucky people think I’m a few years younger. I should still be grateful for that, and I try, but it’s difficult. Vanity.

What hit me tonight was that I had better learn to revel in what I’ve got, right now, because I am in fact 44 years old, and magical bottles aside my face isn’t going to improve from here. I mean, I suppose if I had money I could consider plastic surgery, but from what I have seen that rarely truly improves things. And don’t even talk to me about Botox. I watch TV shows in which the foreheads of the actresses never move, and I find it disconcerting, and sometimes creepy. I’m also a total needlephobe, and the idea of someone sticking a needle in my face is very, very frightening. The stuff of nightmares. Not for me. So from my angle, it’s all about acceptance and seizing the moment. I don’t look 44… on a good day I don’t even look 40. I shouldn’t complain.

A long time ago, a recovering anorexic who had returned to a normal weight was telling a story about coming to find acceptance with her new, healthy body. She said she was in the dressing room glaring at herself in the mirror when she suddenly realized this was it, this was the body she had now, and that was a good thing, even if it was hard for her to deal with it. So she looked in the mirror again, bent down and hugged her own legs. “You are my legs, and I love you,” she announced out loud to her reflection. She then made a habit of doing that, giving her new body those much-needed affirmations. I never forgot her story. It really struck a chord.

“You are my face, and I love you.” That wasn’t so bad, was it? Maybe if I say it a few hundred more times….